


Protect You From Yourself

by helens78



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Character of Color, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-31
Updated: 2008-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-05 07:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's getting harder to keep Tony from getting into the suit when he's drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protect You From Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> **A note about story content:** This story contains a character still in denial about his alcohol addiction.

The armor isn't a car. It's so much more dangerous than a car. It has repulsor rays, it has explosives, it can go suborbital, it can tear down--and tear _through_\--buildings.

Nobody in his right mind would let Tony behind the wheel of a car right now, and Jim isn't going to let him into the armor, either. Not if he can help it.

"Jarvis, shut down the suit-rig," he yells out. He slams a shoulder into the door that leads out to the workshop; nothing budges. He wasn't really expecting it to.

Jarvis sounds calm as ever. "I can't do that, Mr. Rhodes--I am programmed to obey direct orders--"

"This _is_ a direct order. _Shut down the rig--_"

"Mr. Stark has ordered me to--"

"Mr. Stark is going to get his ass killed if you let him in the suit. Don't you follow Asimov's Three Motherfucking Rules of Robotics?"

"I am only familiar with Asimov's Three Rules of Robotics, not Asimov's Three Motherfucking Rules of Robotics--"

"Right, right, right, whatever, so a robot may not--through inaction--allow a human being to come to harm. Do you know how much he's had to drink?"

"Mr. Rhodes, I am not a robot. I am an artificial intelligence construct presently housed inside Mr. Stark's household supercomputer--"

"Shut down the goddamn rig _now_, Jarvis!"

The door to the workshop slides open, and Jim stumbles through, head whipping from side to side as he looks for Tony. There he is -- black bodysuit on, arc reactor glowing through the thing, but he's just staring at the floor under his feet, swaying a little. The suit's not on him. _Thank God._

Jim walks over and grabs Tony's arm. Tony falls over on him, and Jim makes the mistake of breathing in. "Goddamn, you stink," Jim grumbles, forcing Tony upright again. "Now listen. _Listen._ I'm taking you upstairs."

"No," Tony says. "I gotta go--"

"No way. You're not going anywhere, not like this. You sober up, I'll think about it."

"You're fired. Get out." Tony shoves at him, hard; they both end up sprawling. Tony hits his head against the floor, though, so Jim's up on his feet first.

He squats down next to Tony and gets a hand on his shoulder, gives him a rough shake. "You want to fire me from working with you, fine. You can't fire me from being your friend."

"Oh, yeah?"

Jim waits for the real zinger; when it doesn't come, he shakes his head. "You're losing your touch, man. Jarvis scored better on the sarcasm meter than you just did. 'Oh, yeah?' That's tough-guy talk right there."

"Fuck you."

"Closest you're gonna get to _that_ is me carrying your drunk ass to bed, unless you think you can walk there."

One of Tony's arms comes up and bats ineffectively at Jim; Jim's not even sure what he was trying to do. It sure as hell wasn't enough to be a punch, and Tony's not really the punching type anyway--he's more the _I can kill you with my brain_ type. The armor's one aspect of that, the most physical one Tony Stark's brain is likely to come up with. Thank God Jarvis didn't let him get into it.

"I'm not kidding, man. You gonna walk or do I have to carry you?"

He ends up carrying Tony--fireman's carry, slung over one shoulder. Jim's glad Tony doesn't weigh any more than he does, because it's a long way up all those stairs. Once he's got Tony in bed, he eyes the bodysuit. All those zippers, all that stretchy fabric--he thinks taking it off of Tony would be like picking up a sleeping cat. Not as easy as it seems.

He shrugs and pulls his own boots off, slings his jacket over the back of the armchair in the corner. At least the armchair's comfortable. He wishes he didn't know that from experience.

~*~

Jim wakes up to the unpleasant and not-unfamiliar sound of Tony puking his guts out. He winces as he pushes himself out of the armchair, walking into the bathroom and digging the aspirin out of the medicine cabinet. He leaves two pills on the counter and goes out to the mini-bar, where he pours Tony a glass of Fiji water and brings that into the bathroom, too.

"Thanks," Tony says hoarsely. He's done throwing up now, and he swallows the pills dry, using the water to rinse his mouth out. He looks at Jim in the mirror. "Last night. Did I...?"

"You didn't go anywhere. Get out of that thing; you're not going anywhere now, either."

Tony nods and peels himself out of the bodysuit; Rhodey starts up the shower. Tony takes a few minutes to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth out again--this time with Listerine, which he doesn't spit out. Christ, the man's a lunatic; thirty-four-year-old Scotch on the minibar, and he swallows his goddamn mouthwash? After all that, he takes his shower. He comes out looking vaguely human, and Jim leans up against the wall, aching and stiff and jealous of the aspirin and the toothbrush and the shower. "I can't keep doing this, man," he mumbles. "I want to fucking sleep in a _bed_ once in a while."

"Okay." Tony comes up--he hasn't bothered to put clothes on--and he wraps his hand around the back of Jim's neck. "So do it."

Jim pushes Tony away, but he's gentle as he does it. "That's not what I mean," he says softly. "I mean I want you to stop this. Don't make me act like your conscience, because that's a 168-hour-a-week job, and I've only got one life. There's not enough of me to go around."

"C'mere." Tony pushes past Jim's resistance and presses his body up against Jim's--easy contact, light pressure, gradually getting closer and closer until Jim can feel the outline of that fucking battery in Tony's chest. It's not the only thing he can feel, either, and Jim sucks in a breath. It's too early in the morning for that; his body hasn't shaken off the lack of sleep and the typical morning wood.

_And you've never been immune to Tony Stark. Don't leave that out while you're making your excuses._

"I don't want you to be my conscience," Tony murmurs, "because then we'd never do things like this."

Tony tastes like Listerine, a little bit of mint, a little bit of alcohol. Jim kisses him anyway, wraps his arms around Tony's waist. Tony's right; Jim should be backing him off, saying no.

He never does. He pulls Tony in a little closer.

At least this isn't going to kill anyone.

_-end-_


End file.
